


The Daughter

by Joy_Pedler



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Near Future, Post-Canon, phillipa fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3446171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_Pedler/pseuds/Joy_Pedler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phillipa Cobb hasn't seen her father in years, but that doesn't mean that she isn't very much like him, and when she's propelled into working with him again she learns things about him, and herself, that she never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Daughter

A lonely beach in a country whose language you don’t speak.

Waves crashing down on the shore as the sun starts to rise over the horizon.

You open your eyes as salt water fills your nose, and the golden light that comes streaming across the ocean blinds you.

There is sand in your mouth, your nose, your eyes. Sand in places you couldn’t name, and it grates against you as the waves push you further up the shore, closer to the small beach-house with curtains shut to the rising sun.

You think, somewhat foggily, that it must be a habit of the Cobbs to end up on the beach.

You groan because your empty stomach bites into itself, and you use shaking arms to push yourself up, out of the water and sand, and into a slumped sitting position. Your skin is wrinkled and pale, and you now realize that it’s fucking freezing. Your teeth start to chatter, your body shakes, and you only just manage to turn your head to the dry, warm sand up the shore. Your legs are numb, so cold, so you drag yourself by your arms along the sand, away from the water.

The sand starts to stick to your clothes and skin, gritty and hard against your teeth, but you don’t stop until the sand is warm beneath you, and here you force your legs into it, cover your arms with it, and you lay in the rays of the rising sun until you can feel your legs again.

You push your hair out of your eyes, awareness returns, and you realize that you know that beach-house. You recognize the white, sun dried paint, the faded floral curtains, the flowerboxes holding pots of petunias. You’re shaky, but you get to your feet, and you stumble up to the house.

You trip on the porch step just like you’ve done a hundred times, catch yourself before you can topple over, tightly gripping the rough wooden railing that acts as division between beach and house.

Even from here you can smell it, that familiar smell that you can’t place no matter how hard you try.

The door isn’t locked, though that doesn’t strike you as strange, and you push it open into the silence of the house. The floorboards creak under your feet, the house breathing around you as you enter its heart.

The walls are the same sandy white, peeling in the corners, square patches where photographs once hung stark against the weathered paint. The trimming is as uneven as ever, but you’re not here to reminisce.

This is business, and the kitchen door is fast approaching.

There are sounds that drift from the kitchen, clattering and chinking. Baking sounds.

Your perspective shifts, suddenly you are shorter, your limbs chubbier, and you reach a toddler’s arm to turn the handle of the kitchen door.

Your vision is blurry, gold light hitting your face, illuminating your cheeks and blinding you. You can’t see clearly, but the silhouette at the kitchen counter turns towards you.

She smiles.

* * *

 “Phillipa.”

Her eyes snapped open to the rumbling of the van on rough, pot-holed road. Phillipa looked to where her name had come from, and frowned grumpily at Markus.

“What?” she grumbled, closing one eye as the grey light of the mid morning intruded on the darkness of her sleep. Markus rolled his eyes.

“We’re almost there,” he shot back at her. He turned away from her then, settled back into the passenger seat with folded arms. Phillipa leaned forward, forcing her back out of its slumped position. She’d slept long enough that her lower back was offering small, creaking noises of protest. Her legs chimed in as she stretched them out as far as she could from the back seat of the van, her knees still bent even as her heels met the back of the driver’s seat.

“Where exactly is ‘almost there’?” she asked, directing the question to the back of Louis’s head. He sat straight, years of private school forcing his spine into a constant perfect-postured straight line. Markus by contrast was hunched, his spine curled like a question mark. Phillipa’s posture was questionable, her teachers had often told her to sit straight, to uncross her legs and arms or she’d end up twisted like a pretzel.

She’d never liked listening to her teachers.

“Saint-Brieuc,” Louis answered, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “We set up there, you make your way to the bank on foot.”

Phillipa looked to the watch on her wrist only to find it had stopped at a few minutes past midnight and no amount of turning the dial or whacking it would get the hands moving again.

“What’s the time?” she asked, giving up on the watch. She didn’t bother to take it from her wrist.

“Almost eleven,” Louis answered. “We’re still on track for twelve thirty.”

Phillipa settled into the seat and looked out the window. The French countryside rushed by. The grey sky painted the landscape as bleak and boring, the trees sparse on the hills that extended out to the line of the horizon.

She looked away.

It was cold out here, but her blonde hair, which she’d washed the night before in preparation, was heavy and thick on her shoulders. She pulled it up, away from her face and secured it at the base of her skull, tucked the stray strands that escaped behind her ears.

Markus turned in his seat to look back at her.

“You ready?” he asked. He meant to be condescending, but Phillipa wasn’t going to have any of that.

“Are you?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. She knew how to do her job, she didn’t need Markus asking her if she was competent.

He smiled slightly, just a slight raising of one corner of his mouth.

“Always,” he said. He unbuckled his seatbelt, which earned a disapproving look from the corner of Louis’s eye, and heaved himself over the seat into the seat beside Phillipa. She raised both eyebrows as he settled in beside her, a hand coming to sit heavily on her thigh.

He shrugged at her expression, nonchalant, though he couldn’t keep it up and grinned as he leaned in to kiss her. Phillipa kept her arms crossed across her chest as he squeezed her thigh slightly.

She’d known that sleeping with him was a bad idea. That he’d get attached to the idea of her and that shaking him would be difficult.

She’d done it anyway.

She only had herself to blame for his cutesy, vomit inducing behaviour now.

He pulled away, still smiling even as her expression remained resolutely neutral. She scoffed slightly and rolled her eyes.

“What?” he asked, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders.

“You’re gonna make me sick,” she mumbled, pushing his shoulder with just enough force to take it from playful to serious.

Markus didn’t seem to get the message. He laughed softly and leaned in for another kiss. Phillipa turned her head just in time so his lips met her cheek. He wasn’t put off though, using the opportunity to fiddle with the collar of her shirt as his lips travelled from her cheek to her neck.

“Stop it,” she grumbled, trying to push him away, though he just laughed and kept on with his lips on her neck.

Phillipa had had enough.

“Fucking stop,” she said, not a flicker of hesitation as she shoved him away from her. His back hit the door with a thump, and Louis tore his gaze from the road to look back at them with a frown.

“Hey!” he snapped. “Careful!”

Phillipa flipped him off, and the Frenchman returned the gesture, before turning back to the road.

Markus twisted his mouth as he recovered from the impact.

“The fuck is your problem?” he grumbled as he brushed himself off.

“We’re here to do a job,” Phillipa answered harshly. “Stop fucking around.”

Markus grumbled to himself, but sat in his seat, leaving her alone for the time.

The three of them were silent until Louis spoke.

“We’re here,” he said simply, and both Phillipa and Markus glanced out the window to the small town they had just entered.

The streets were almost empty, the architecture a strange combination of old world France and commercial Modernism, the traditional gated houses juxtaposed with sleek but cheap supermarkets and cafes.

They weren’t there for the houses and supermarkets.

They were there for the bank.

It sat on their calendar marked in red. This would be their fourth bank in the last six months. Some would say they were greedy. They were just well organized. Louis had planned their movements a year in advance, had scheduled their heists to coincide with days when the banks were having new security systems installed. He knew this because he had developed the software and had been involved in discussions with Stanton Banks. He had even suggested dates for the software to be installed.

That was before he had been made redundant and the software he had developed had been taken from him.

They’d been making their way across the country, bank to bank, taking as much as possible.

Louis handled the technology. He would set up his remote system from the back of the van and hack in to the system when it was at its most vulnerable; while it was being installed.

Markus was security. He made sure that once they were in the bank there would be no one coming in or out. He liked guns.

Phillipa was the extractor. She would enter disguised as a patron, in her best clothes, her hair and makeup done to perfection. Markus tailed her, but this was her area of expertise. She’d approach a teller, smile sweetly, and draw a gun. Markus would back her up as she made her way to the vaults. Louis would open them for her and she would pile as much as she could into the large, fake-label handbag she carried. She’d exit, Markus with her, Louis waiting in the van, and they’d drive away before someone could activate the alarm.

That was why it worked. With the systems down the police would only get the call long after they were gone.

Louis pulled into the parking lot of a motel off the main road.

Markus let out a noise of protest at the sight of the dingy, cheap hotel.

“Can we stay somewhere nice for once?” he groaned.

“We’re not looking for five star,” Phillipa said simply, pulling the van door open as the engine went quiet. “We’re looking for inconspicuous.”

Markus whined like a puppy as Phillipa pulled her backpack from the van’s floor.

“We always stay in the crappiest places,” he moaned, lying down on the van’s seat.

“We’re only here for a few hours,” Louis added as he pushed Markus to the van’s floor, unclipping the seat to fold it down.

“After this we’re going to Switzerland and staying in the swankiest hotel there,” Markus said as he pulled himself to his feet, helping Louis to secure the back seat flat.

“Fine,” Phillipa said as she pulled her wallet from her bag. “I’m gonna go hire a room, who am I today?”

Louis rifled through the stack of papers in the back of the van, then handed her a driver’s license and credit card.

“You are Marion Bellome,” he said, checking the name on the driver’s license. Phillipa took it from him and checked the photograph, making a small noise of dissatisfaction.

“You had to use the crappiest photo of me didn’t you,” she grumbled as she checked the details. She frowned. “This says I’m thirty five.”

Louis nodded, and Phillipa let out a sound of frustration.

“Louis I’m only nineteen, I can’t pass for thirty-five,” she explained, glancing around to make sure no one had heard her.

“I dunno, the lines you’ve got on your forehead are pretty convincing,” Markus chimed in from the front seat, going through the duffel bag on the floor.

Phillipa stepped back into the van to whack the back of his head. Markus let out a yelp of pain, palm against the red handprint on the back of his head.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed as Phillipa strode towards the front desk.

“Asshole!” she called back to him.

* * *

 Phillipa was always calm and cool for their jobs. Markus got a bit antsy, Louis carefully concealing his nerves.

Phillipa didn’t get nervous.

Her hair had been straightened to perfection, her makeup flawless. In a smart dress, pearls and (not quite) Louis Vuitton handbag she could pass for a youthful thirty five. The dark glasses on her nose added to the illusion.

The people here weren’t as well dressed as she was, but she wasn’t out of place.

Stanton Banks catered to people of all walks of life, but their specialty was holding goods and money for the wealthy.

She was close to the teller, and glanced to where Markus stood, pretending to fill out a form. His free hand was his right, the left holding the pen as he pretended to fill in a tax return form. If anyone was paying attention they would have noticed how crappy his writing was with the left hand, the right hand poised, waiting to pull a gun out from where it resided in his waistband. Markus was surprisingly calm, and looked her way. He caught her gaze and grinned.

Phillipa didn’t react.

She turned back to the teller as the person in front of her took a step closer.

“Testing, one, two,” the voice in her ear came through. “Can you hear me Phillipa?”

“I can hear you,” Phillipa breathed. Louis would hear it no matter how softly she spoke.

“Can you hear me Markus?” Louis asked, their communications all on the same network.

“Loud and clear,” Markus’s voice echoed in her ear, too loud, and Phillipa glanced his way. Markus winced and turned away. “Sorry.”

“Our systems are online,” Louis said as Phillipa took a step closer to the counter. “And they’ve just taken theirs down.”

The person in front of Phillipa got to the counter.

“Markus, once Phillipa’s pulled her gun you need to keep everyone here so Phillipa can subdue the techie,” Louis instructed.

“Yeah, I know what to do,” Markus responded confidently. “I have done this before Lou.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Phillipa breathed as the man in front of her finished his business and moved from the counter. The teller, a woman in her mid thirties, didn’t smile as Phillipa stepped up. Her hair was an ashy blonde, dirtier than Phillipa’s, and she raised an eyebrow as she took in Phillipa’s appearance.

“Comment peux-je t’aide?” the woman asked.

“Bonjour,” Phillipa said, keeping her French accent subtle.

“Fifteen seconds,” Louis said in her ear.

“Je voudrais,” Phillipa stalled, rifling through her bag as though for a wallet. “Je voudrais…”

“Ten,” Louis said.

The woman frowned.

“Madame?”

Phillipa didn’t bother with being offended at being called a madame rather than mademoiselle.

“Five.”

“Je voudrais,” Phillipa stopped the charade of going through her bag, the gun already in her grasp.

“Now.”

“Je voudrais vos co-operation,” she said as she pulled the gun from her bag and pointed it at the teller. “S’il vous plait.”

“Alright everyone stay calm!” she heard Markus say behind her, the yells and shouts of people as he raised his gun. “This is a robbery, but no one needs to get hurt today.”

The teller raised her hands as Phillipa undid the safety.

“L’office,” Phillipa said neutrally. The woman trembled and let out a whimper when Phillipa took the gun with both hands. “Maintenant!”

The woman nodded as Phillipa ducked under the barricade, following her to the corridor behind the desks. She led her to a small room, and Phillipa pushed her aside as she entered.

An older man sat at a desk.

"Arrêtez,” Phillipa said softly. “J’ai une arme.”

The man froze and glanced back.

“Non, arrêtez,” Phillipa said, and the man stopped his movements.

She came to stand behind him, the gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Levez vous,” she instructed, and the man got to his feet shakily.

The teller and techie walked before her back to the lobby, where Markus had got all the people to lie face down on the marble floor. He grinned at her as she pushed the two people into the crowd.

He tried to lean in and kiss her, but Phillipa frowned and pushed him away.

“Not the fucking time!” she hissed, and Markus stuck out his bottom lip. “Watch them.”

Phillipa turned and made her way to the booths. From under the counters she pulled stacks of bills, poured them into her open bag. There was never much at the booths, soon she had gone through all of them and still her bag had space left. She strode from the booths to the entry to the vaults. There wasn’t time to go into the vaults but there was sure to be some form of currency being transported.

Soon enough she came across a cart loaded with stacks of bills, and upended trays into her bag until the fake-labeled thing was bursting at the seams. This would get them through until their next heist.

In the lobby Markus grinned to see her approaching.

The grin left his face quickly though, when the sound of a warning shot rang from outside the bank. Phillipa stood at the entrance to the vaults, frozen at the impossible sound.

“Police?” she shouted to Markus, who glanced nervously out to the glass doors. “Louis why are the police here?” she demanded.

The Frenchman was silent.

“Louis?” she yelled. There was nothing but silence in her ear.

“Back door!” Markus yelled to her as he started to run, and Phillipa shed her heavy coat as she started to run too.

She stumbled as her foot caught on something. She glanced at her foot to see that a man had grabbed her as she passed. She growled as she tried to free herself from his grip.

“Markus!” she called out for him, and he stopped mid stride and ran back to her.

Only when the heel of her shoe caught the man in the hand did he release her and Phillipa kept moving.

“Here!” she said as she reached Markus, pushing her bag into his hands. He grabbed it and turned to run again. Phillipa kept pace with him.

She heard the sound of the glass doors breaking open, but didn’t glance back.

She let out a yelp, and fell as a bullet grazed her calf. She pressed a hand to the wound, blood hot on her hands. She tried to stand but let out a cry as the pain spiked.

“Markus!” she called for him. He stopped and looked back at her, but he didn’t move towards her.

“Sorry,” she read on his lips as he turned and ran from her.

“Markus!” she yelled, closing her eyes to the pain in her calf.

Markus didn’t look back at her as he made it to the back door and disappeared from sight.

She grunted as she was pinned to the floor, the gun forced from her hands and her wrists shackled behind her.

The door swung open to the alleyway, the sound of Markus’s retreating steps echoing in her ear.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is 100% a work in progress, still working out the kinks in the plot but I am dedicated to this and fully intend on finishing it and making it awesome. Thanks for reading what I've got so far :)


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